Shameful Metaphors
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: The cowboy plush's eye twitches. He's never been so furious at being created into existence. Why couldn't he have been born? Why couldn't he be human? .:. WoodyXAndy oneshot. beware: this is rated M for a reason, LOL. includes toy!Woody and human!Woody.


**A/N: Oh noes, what have I done?**

…**I've corrupted your childhoods, that's what. XD**

**((I'm going to a special kind of Hell for this one~! 8D ))**

**Note: Yes, I did borrow the title of this fanfic from the song, 'Shameful Metaphors' by Chevelle, but it was fitting. This is in no way a songfic. And I'll admit, one or two of the concepts in this were borrowed from my own comics, other people's fanfics, and a random fanart or two. So yeah. I'm unoriginal. And way too mooshy and weird and make-no-sense and overly dramatic. (This could almost be crack, it's so silly! Like, seriously: plot? What plot? LOL. :D )**

**Enjoy, I guess? But, you know. Be aware of the whole… **_**rated-M**_** thing. There's a reason for that, mainly in the beginning. ;D**

"**Always" by Good Charlotte oddly started playing at precisely the right moment while writing this. X'DD**

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The cowboy plush's eye twitches. He's never been so furious at being created into existence. Why couldn't he have been _born?_ Why couldn't he be _human?_

He shakes his head at himself, and attempts to pull his eyes away from what he's witnessing. He knows that it's intrusive and wrong, but Woody is a very selfish toy.

He wants to watch, since he knows he can never possess what he's seeing.

"Woody?" Jessie rasps behind him, her voice hoarse with sleep. She shifts from her position near Buzz, and squints her eyes to see in the dim lighting. "What's going on? Is something wrong?"

Woody shakes his head and gently closes the toy box lid. "No, nothing's wrong. Go back to sleep, Jess."

She eyes him suspiciously, but a yawn escapes her lips despite herself. "Well… alright. G'night, Sheriff."

The brunet shifts uncomfortably as the redhead returns to slumber. He brings his legs up to his chest and rests his chin on his knees. Woody sighs and closes his eyes; he's trying to keep himself from peeking again.

But as soon as he hears another small, muffled moan, he can't help himself. He stands up on uneven ground and quietly slips out of the wagon-painted toy box altogether.

He makes not a sound on the hardwood floor as he weaves around dirty laundry and scattered objects; the usual, considering that this is a teenage boy's room.

Andy is fifteen; a sophomore in high school, and coming into his own. And that includes puberty and hormones and all that it implies.

Sickly fascinated, Woody sneaks up to the foot of Andy's bed, secretly praying for two things: one, that Andy doesn't notice him, and two, that Buzz and the others don't wake and find their leader missing.

"Nhh," Andy murmurs, caught between a sigh and another groan. He's laying on his side, curled in on himself, one hand desperately clutching his pillow beneath his head, and the other moving slowly beneath the sheets. Half of the teen's bottom lip is nestled between his teeth, and his eyes are squeezed shut. And, best of all, there is a dusting of rose blossoming on his freckled cheeks.

Admittedly, Woody has never seen anything more beautiful.

Not a sunrise nor sunset, not a dancing campfire, not a night sky; not even Bo Peep.

Only Andy. His second owner (Woody once belonged to Andy's father, given as a gift by Andy's grandfather to the other Davis), but in Woody's eyes, his one true owner. He's never loved anything or anyone as much as he loves Andy. Nothing can compare to his feelings for this boy.

It began small; a feeling of being a possession, then a feeling of needing to protect, a loyal feeling, and then a dutiful, blind love sort of feeling. And now…

All Woody wishes in the world is to be Andy's equal. Someone to cradle the boy at night, someone to cheer the boy up when he's down, someone to kiss the boy to remind him that he's special, and someone to love the boy unconditionally. Forever.

It aches, not having these things. It aches like a chunk of missing stuffing inside the cowboy's very being, his very soul. It hurts him to know that all he can do is watch Andy pleasure himself, knowing that he can never give Andy the same pleasure with human hands.

Woody closes his eyes and sits still. He can feel the teen's feet thrashing gently beneath the covers, and he can hear the sandy blond's harsh breathing.

Opening his eyes, Woody dares to inch closer. He's done this before: while Andy slept, Woody would sneak out of the toy box and touch the boy's face, soft and warm; or he would plant a small kiss on the boy's forehead, chaste and tender. Anything he could do in order to feel closer to his beloved owner.

The sheriff is much closer now. The proximity sends electric shivers throughout the surfaces of Woody's vinyl. He brings a hand up to his mouth to silence any noise, and he's careful not to get too close or within sight, in case Andy opens his eyes.

Andy rolls over onto his back, panting. His face relaxes for a short moment before his mouth falls open in a silent cry, and his hand ceases movement. He lays still, dizzy and breathless, and his lashes flutter open. Woody ducks to lay flat under a wrinkle of bed sheet. Andy doesn't see him.

Without warning, Andy gets up and leaves for the bathroom, most likely to clean himself. Woody is left alone in Andy's bed, but the bed is still warm from body heat and friction, and it smells like how Woody imagines bliss should smell: warming, salty like sweat, and of the outdoors; sunshine and burning wood and green grass edged with dew.

Before he misses his chance to do so, the cowboy crawls into the center of where Andy had lain. He wraps his arms around himself and absorbs as much of Andy's essence as he can: the boy's warmth, the boy's scent. And when Woody opens his eyes, there is soft rustling outside of Andy's door.

But there's no time to get back to the toy box.

In a panic, Woody leaps up and runs to the edge of the bed. Except…

Suddenly, he's tripping on a wrinkle of blanket, and falling onto the floor with a loud _thud,_ followed not shortly after by the soft _clank _of his boots.

_Shit,_ Woody growls mentally, swearing only a recent, silent habit he's been doing due to Andy's own experimentation with swears. (Even the best of children develop this rotten habit as teenagers, it seems.)

Andy jumps, startled. "I-is someone there?" he stutters, nervous. "Buster?" He adds as a last-second thought, wondering if the sound had come from his dog.

But no, it's nothing of the sort. As Andy closes his door and flicks on the light in one flash just to see what might be out of place, he spots his old toy lying on the floor at the foot of his bed.

Frowning, the boy paces over to the doll and picks it up. He stares into richly hazelnut eyes, painted on, but more soulful-looking than some real people's. "Well, howdy, buddy," Andy says with a wayward smile. He turns off his light and returns to his bed, Woody in hand. Somehow, it feels good to have the soft plush weighted by vinyl in his hands again. "How'd you get out of the toy box? Did Molly leave you on my bed or something, as a joke?"

Woody inwardly fights to keep his "dumb-doll" composure. He wants so badly to say something, or move a muscle, if only to tell the truth or at least smile a bit wider.

Andy reclines back on his bed, his spine leaning against the cool wall. He pretends like he hadn't just been touching himself inappropriately moments ago. One of his fingers slides down the smooth length of Woody's face. "You know," Andy admits shyly, "My mom used to tease me. She said that I had a crush on you, since I never did anything without you by my side." He laughs lowly, meekly. "…Maybe she was right."

He carefully sets the toy next to him on the bed. He sighs, and sinks and slides until his head is once again resting on his pillow. The darkness is lifted only by the light of a streetlamp leaking in through Andy's open window. Outside the air is cool and still, and smelling of late autumn.

The teen draws up his sheets and glances over at his plush friend. "I'm too tired to put you away tonight, sorry. Hope you don't mind hanging with me again. It's been a while, huh?"

And for a second, the boy thinks he sees Woody nodding slightly. Blinking, the boy looks away. His imagination always did get the best of him at night…

Clearing his throat, Andy voices some of his thoughts to the doll. He knows that Woody can't (in actuality: _won't_) answer him, but he feels the need to get some things off his chest. "I think there's something wrong with me, Woody. I… I don't like girls. I pretend to, for my friends' and family's sakes, but I really don't like them the way I'm supposed to. I don't know, I just find the concept of being with a woman's body… well, _disgusting. _And at my age, that's not very normal." He snorts. "Hell, some guys have already had sex! But me? I'm terrified of the idea. I don't want it, and not with some _girl._" He shudders, and luckily doesn't see the way Woody's gentle smile evolves into a wicked smirk. Andy sighs. "It's weird, Woody. Puberty and teenagehood and all of it is just plain _weird._ I wish I could go back to the simplicity of childhood."

Woody understands. He truly does. And half of the time, he wishes Andy could go back, too, if only for the boy to spend more time with the sheriff. But Woody also knows that if that happened, his love for Andy wouldn't be as justified any longer, because at least at age fifteen, the boy is partially grown and Woody doesn't feel half as guilty about his feelings.

Andy closes his crystal blue eyes, only to open them back up again seconds later with an outburst of weak laughter. "Actually," he mutters under his breath, "I wish that you were a real person so that I didn't feel insane for speaking to an inanimate object." And he wants to laugh more at the silliness of it all.

Except Andy's giddy, sleep-deprived feelings are soon shaken off. Because as soon as he speaks those words, a flash of light nearly blinds him in the darkness.

_[There are two rules to being a toy with a soul: one, that magic is used to being you to life, and that magic will go out after one hundred years, or if you are destroyed. And the second rule… if your owner truly, deeply wishes in their heart for you to be human, that same magic will be spent to transform you. After this point, you will have fifty years to live, no matter how old you were previously.]_

The teenager shields his eyes, chilling fear coursing through his veins much like how iced soda flows through a straw and bursts in one's mouth. He emits a small cry of surprise, and once he sees the light dim to nothing through his eyelids, he slowly blinks open his bleary eyes.

"What the –" Andy sputters, feeling a sudden weight next to him in his bed, and body heat against his leg coming from…

Woody blinks rapidly once or twice. He stares down at his hands, takes in a shaky breath with new lungs, and touches a hand to his chest to feel a beating heart. He gasps, and rubs his eyes to make sure he isn't dreaming. But no, his larger, more solid form is real, and all of his memories are in tact. "– I'm… human?" he breathes.

Andy is on the brink of screaming. He bolts out of bed and rushes to the nearest light source: his dresser-top lamp. "Wh-who…" But he cuts himself off. The person, in the light, is dressed identically to his beloved cowboy toy, and is sitting in the same pose in the same place the doll had been milliseconds ago. "N-no… impossible…" Andy whispers, shock draining his face of color.

Meanwhile, the sheriff himself is also trying to grasp how this possible. His mind reeling, he can think of only one word: _magic._ He blinks and finally turns his chocolate eyes on Andy's. "Andy," his says, and something electric jolts down the teen's spine. The way his voice had just been spoken… it carried too heavy of emotions in it. Love, longing, loneliness, lust. Too much…

Andy stumbles back against his closet door, staring wide-eyed at the young man in his bed. Very young, surprisingly young; perhaps in his late teens or earliest of twenties, at the _most._

The imaginative boy wonders if this is actually happening. But he knows that he hadn't gone to sleep yet, and sometimes, real life is stranger than make-believe.

The sandy blond swallows, attempting to wet his dry throat and mouth. His lips open slowly, and he utters one word, one question: "Woody?"

Startled out of his shock, Woody's mouth falls into an easy smile and his eyelids fall at half-mast. "Yes. It's me, partner." As proof, he draws his right boot out from under the covers and crosses it over his other foot, the name ANDY in faded, childish lettering.

Andy is about to burst with emotion. He begins shaking, and his hands form into fists at his sides to prevent his fingers from quaking. "It's… really you," he says, his facial expression soft. The prickle of tears stings the backs of his eyes, but he resists them. (Damn his unbalanced hormones; boys shouldn't cry!)

Woody stands and slips his hands into his jean pockets. His hat slumps forward to block the view of his eyes as he says brokenly, "You've… grown, Andy. Before tonight, you seemed to not need any of us any longer." And he jerks one thumb in the toy box's direction.

Everything clicks in Andy's mind. His toys know his life. They look after him, even more than he looks after them. They care about him. And things are about to change drastically.

"That's not true," Andy says between clenched teeth. He glances down at his bare feet, trying not to reveal his conflicting emotions. It just wouldn't be right. "I'll always need you. All of you. But… especially you, Woody." He dares to steal a glance at the cowboy. The taller brunet is stun-faced, flush-cheeked, and gleeful-eyed. The sandy blond returns his gaze to his feet.

Woody smiles brightly. He takes a couple steps forward and embraces the younger boy. "I don't know how long this will last," he says, referring to being a carbon-based life form at last, "But no matter what, I'll always be here for you, Andy. I love you."

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, but Woody doesn't regret them in the least. It's the truth, and he's overjoyed that he can finally say it out loud.

Without hesitation, Andy pulls away just enough to look up into Woody's face. His blue eyes searching, he reaches up and pushes Woody's hat off of his head, his fingers running through chestnut-colored hair. Then, slowly, his eyes shut as his face comes closer, his hand at the back of the cowboy's head, pulling Woody's face down to his level. Their lips meet, and somehow, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to the young teen.

And even more natural: the feeling of skin against skin as shirts fall away and bodies press closer, caressing and believe in the realness of it all in between little licks and kisses that should have never been, and yet are.


End file.
